Stone
by Mornen
Summary: /Nerdanel drew metal over stone and cut a face from marble. She carved into the eyes until they were perfect and broke rock to form a smile that would never fade. / Nerdanel/Feanor


The light of the trees mingled together, and the city came to a halt and lived in the moment. Mothers brushed fresh-from-play hair in the light. Fathers washed fresh-from-games skin in the light. Lovers held each other and breathed in the light.

Nerdanel drew metal over stone and cut a face from marble. She carved into the eyes until they were perfect and broke rock to form a smile that would never fade.

Her room smelt of sweat and the fine powder of crumbled stone. Drawn tight against her skull, her hair was braided down her back. She did not notice the change in the trees from one to the other.

Her chisel rang through silence like a heartbeat against frost.

She felt his shadow before she saw it. It was a weak shadow thrown across the dirt floor. She had to have a dirt floor. It felt real. The soil beneath her spoke to her feet, still so young. But it was older than she.

"My father must have taught you not to disturb a master," she said. "Do you not listen to anyone about anything?"

His shadow wavered, but he said nothing. She ignored him and began to scrape a chest from the stone.

"Do you do sculpt from memory now?" he asked.

"I can." She cut swiftly. She knew each stroke, what it must be.

He let his breath out and took it in again, refusing to give anyone anything. "Who do you remember that well?"

The chisel rang. "You."

"Is that me?"

"No."

His shadow sank low on the floor, and she heard him sit down. His clothes rustled against the dirt as he settled himself.

"I'll watch," he said.

She worked quietly. His breath disturbed her. His eyes remained on her, on the stone. He said nothing.

"I am carving a memory," she said. It seemed necessary to speak to him. His thoughts felt too restless; they were burning the edge of her mind.

"Is it of me?"

She nearly turned to look at him then, but stopped herself. "It is what you were."

"You said you could never capture me," he said.

"Not you. The memory." She pecked at tje neck with the chisel. "I can make it."

"You cannot." He laughed. "You cannot make me, so put it aside, I want to talk to you."

"You were not always that arrogant, Fëanáro," she said. "You were not in this memory. You see? You smile."

He laughed again. "I am smiling now. Stop playing with your rocks and join me."

"You laugh with pride, Fëanáro. But not in my memory. Then you laughed with joy." Slowly she ran her fingers over the face, over the smile, over the chin. "Do you remember?" She drew her fingers down the neck. It was still rough.

"That is your memory, not mine." He got up and went to stand behind her. "Look at his face – that is not me."

"It was you," she said.

He slipped his arms around her waist and laid his chin against her shoulder. "No, it was not. That is a dream you had of a boy who once loved you." He kissed her ear and ran his tongue over it.

"Once? It is over now?" She laid down the chisel. "Have you stopped loving me now?"

"I told you, I am not he. You wrote a memory out of rock that never was." He pressed a kiss against her neck and ran his hands over her stomach, smoothing her tunic. "Love me, Nerdanel."

She held his hands in place on her body: one against her waist, and the other over her heart.

"No one should make promises," she said. "Not when time is so long."

He laughed against her ear. It was a hot laugh and a fast one. "There are those older than us who do not think that time has been that long." He kissed her. "Love me."

"I cannot see you until I am done. It will ruin my memory." She picked the chisel up and placed it above the heart. "I have you memorized. What you were. I need to keep that."

"That is not I!" He let go of her. "That is not I. I do not look like that."

"Have you ever looked at yourself, Fëanáro?"

"Father says I look like Mother. She thought life was long." She heard his hands hit his thighs. "Do not leave me."

"I never said I would." She cut the chest. The stone shaved away and fell like sugar to the dirt.

"I have a burn now," he said. "Right there. It might heal still, or it might scar. I do not know. I have had it for sometime."

"I know, but you did not have it in this memory." She carved the stone smooth.

"I do not know about your memories."

"You know of nothing but yourself."

Sharply he pulled her around. "I know of you," he said. "I could write you from memory," he said. "You hair, your hands. Your beautiful hands." He caught one to his mouth and kissed it. "Every callous. Your fingerprints. Your nails." He drew her hand against his open mouth. "There. I know it." He kissed it. "I know you."

He pushed her back against the statue, against the torso rising from a solid block of stone. She felt the back of her head hit the marble face, and his face was close to hers. She was caught between cold then and hot now, and he was staring.

She kissed him and pulled his burning body against her. "I love you," she said.

"And not that silly, silly memory." He kissed her, hands slipping beneath her clothes.

"And that memory," she said and wrapped herself around him. "Always that memory."

* * *

Author's note: Would you believe that was my attempt at romance? Yes, I thought I should try writing one, and it came out creepy. Again. I really need to learn to write romance... Ahem.


End file.
